Holly Lester

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Billings’s imagination was racing. What were these ‘some things’? Petty theft? A brief foray into prostitution? Drugs with her brother? Obviously something scandalous, and wounding, and hateful. Perhaps it was abuse – yes, Holly must have been abused as a child. By whom? Her brother? That would make sense, explain the simultaneous bond and distance between them. He remembered Kevin’s sudden softening as he left the gallery – Tell her I looked all right... she always cared about that. If it were that, Trachtenberg was right – it would not be something she’d want to talk about. Oprah Winfrey might be willing to bare her soul on national television, tell countless millions how she had been raped at the age of nine, but Billings couldn’t see Holly Lester, whatever the opportunity for ‘spin’, telling Michael Parkinson about the night-time hell of her Brighton childhood.

  The waiter brought the bill and left it diplomatically in the middle of the table between them. Billings looked at Trachtenberg. ‘And you think McBain has discovered some of this?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do about that?’

  ‘Presumably he knows about you and Holly?’

  Billings shook his head. ‘No, he doesn’t; he knows I know her a bit, even sold her a picture, but he doesn’t know about the rest.’

  This was being economical with the truth, so he locked eyes with Trachtenberg as he spoke to reinforce an impression of sincerity. He smelt trouble for his friend McBain, as well as for himself; whether out of altruism or self-interest, he thought it essential to keep McBain out of his affair. He didn’t know where the conversation was going next, and he suddenly decided there was small percentage in finding out. He reached for the bill and started to put a credit card on top of it, then thought the better of it and paid cash. Trachtenberg continued to stare at him. Let him stare, thought Billings, as he walked out of the restaurant.

  Chapter 19

  McBain was drinking shorts, so Billings ordered a large neat whisky. In one corner a mangy dog lay scratching itself; in another, a woman in a Virgin t-shirt was groping a man with her hand under the table.

  ‘Lovely place you picked,’ he told McBain.

  His friend shrugged. He was wearing a green tweed jacket that made him look even broader than usual. ‘I thought it best to meet somewhere remote, but you never liked pubs anyway. What’s so important you needed to see me urgently?’

  ‘I had lunch with Alan Trachtenberg.’

  ‘Lucky you. I wouldn’t have predicted you two would become mates, but then, you’ve surprised me in other respects as well.’

  It had taken repeated cajoling to get McBain to see him on the same day, but Billings had felt sufficiently panicked by the confusing menace of Alan Trachtenberg to insist that his friend come out after work. ‘We’re not friends and never will be,’ he said emphatically, then recounted his lunchtime conversation.

  When he came to the mysterious secret of Holly’s past which McBain was supposed to be probing, his friend’s eyes widened and he shook his head. He looked around at the other people in the pub, then leant towards Billings. ‘He’s not even close.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  McBain shook his head. ‘I have no idea what he’s trying to do, telling you this. Does he really think you wouldn’t say something to me? Of course not. So he wants me to know what he told you. But unless there’s some scandal there I’ve missed, he knows it’s not Holly’s past I’m checking out. It his.’

  ‘So he’s trying to warn you off through me?’

  McBain shrugged again. ‘I don’t know.’ He finished his drink and put his glass on the bar, then signalled for a refill. ‘Do you remember that jerk in the restaurant? The one I finally grabbed hold of?’

  ‘Not likely to forget him. Why?’

  ‘His name is Tibbons, Sam Tibbons. He’s in advertising now, but I’ve looked into him, and it turns out he used to be an assistant to an MP.’

  ‘Trachtenberg?’

  ‘No. Somebody named Alastair Trevenix. Ever heard of him?’

  Alarm bells were ringing so loudly in Billings’s head that he looked away, then waved dramatically at the barman for another drink for himself too. When he looked back at McBain he said slowly, ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘He’s a Tory, which came as a bit of a surprise. Since if anyone had Tibbons set me up – and that was my assumption – it should have been a Labour person. They’re the ones who were pissed off with me. Trevenix’s the Chairman of the 1922 Committee – the Tory backbenchers. Pretty much all Thatcher supporters. It didn’t make any sense to me. Unless...’

  ‘What?’ asked Billings eagerly, as McBain drank from his new glass. ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless Trevenix was doing the government a favour.’

  ‘But he’s a Tory, as you said. And a Thatcherite to boot.’

  ‘She never liked the last government, you know,’ mused McBain. ‘She felt betrayed by them. They often say right wingers prefer left wingers to Liberals, and vice versa – better the devil you know than some soft ragamuffin in between. If there were some kind of deal between that lot and Labour, it would explain a lot of the “coincidences” that happened during the Election. Any time Labour looked like it might be faltering, or the Tories started to gel a bit, some terrible exposé would come out. And look at poor Scarlatti – with someone like Trevenix you’d have thought a mild fascist attachment on Scarlatti’s father’s part would have been a plus. Talk about the pot calling the kettle.’

  ‘So what’s the upshot?’

  McBain grimaced. ‘There isn’t one yet. I haven’t got proof of anything. But I have to say, Trachtenberg’s conversation with you today makes me feel I’m onto something.’

  Billings said nothing, but his heart was pounding. Overheard words came back to him from that evening in Wigmore Street: We can offer the following... I take it this place is safe enough... It would be good to fix a next meeting. He felt he could say nothing useful to McBain without pulling part of the Labour house down while he was inside. He noticed McBain looking around them again. ‘For Christ’s sakes,’ Billings exclaimed, ‘would you quit looking around like that? I’ve got enough to be paranoid about without you adding your paranoia as well.’

  McBain laughed. ‘It’s not called paranoia, James. It’s called Fairweather.’

  Billings started. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘See? You’re jumpy, too. No, Fairweather thinks I’m onto something and keeps showing up in places where I’d rather he wouldn’t. And he keeps looking at my notes; I’ve had to lock my desk at work. Only he thinks I’ve got something on Labour. He doesn’t know anything about Trevenix.’

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘I’ll keep digging around. Then if nothing surfaces, I’ll do what true journalists always do. I’ll give up.’

  When he got home he found a letter from Marla, announcing her imminent return to the UK and declaring that they needed to talk. The tone of the letter was cordial but no more, and Billings found himself chilled by the prospect of some final discussion which, presumably, would be followed by others between their lawyers.

  He was confused, he realized, confused about a lot of things. He missed Marla, for however much he enjoyed his life with Holly, he knew it was a limited life and not one he could happily enjoy for years to come. Trachtenberg’s sinister insinuations bothered him, and he could not decide if there were indeed a dark secret in Holly’s past which McBain was missing, or whether Trachtenberg was leading him down a garden path in the hope of... hope of what? He didn’t know.

  Neither did Holly, when they went for an unusual walk alone in Regent’s Park. Alone, that is, except for Terry the Runt one hundred yards ahead, and Mrs Diamond the same distance behind, in a new blazer which still did not effectively disguise her shoulder holster. Holly was wearing professional clothes – a cream suit with a Chartreuse blouse and pearls. Elegant, but very formal for a walk in the park. Her hair had been recently cut, short with a new fringe. ‘This is nic
e,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been out for a walk in ages.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you. I had lunch with Alan – or maybe I should say dessert.’

  ‘Oh. What did he want?’

  ‘To talk about you, mainly. It’s no surprise he’s not happy about me. I suppose he wanted to establish if there were any chance of me going away.’

  Holly looked wistful. ‘And is there?’

  ‘Not unless you want me to.’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No. Some days I don’t know what I’d do without you. You have no idea how stressful some of this can be…’ She waved her hands around her in a gesture he immediately understood. It was not regal – as in all this belongs to me – but still managed to take in not only the accompanying presences of Terry the Runt and Mrs Diamond, but much more besides: the opening of Parliament, the Chancellor’s budget speech, the reception for the visiting head of Lesotho, lunch for the wives of the G7 summit. ‘You’re my antidote. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Alan was worried about my friend McBain. You know, Daisy Carrera.’

  She nodded. ‘I know he hates London One Thousand. But I don’t often see the Standard.’

  ‘Alan thinks he’s been digging around – into you. Your past in particular, he says, though he warned me I shouldn’t raise it with you.’

  ‘My past?’ Holly looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘I don’t know what he meant exactly. I guess I thought...’

  ‘Thought what?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, feeling embarrassed. ‘I guess I thought perhaps it had something to do with your brother.’

  ‘Kevin? What would it have to do with him?’

  Billings put both hands out, Italian style, as if to say ‘beats me’ in New York fashion. He found himself speaking without thinking: ‘I mean, that scar,’ he said, pointing to the faint line that ran down her cheek which he usually noticed only after they had made love. ‘How did you get that?’

  She looked at him with fury, then laughed out loud very bitterly. ‘What in God’s name did you think? That Kevin did this to me, sometime way back when in a nefarious past? Perhaps he had pressed me into prostitution, out of desperation when his money for drugs ran short. And when I balked, he cut me up and sent me back onto the streets. Is that the sort of thing you imagined?’

  Almost precisely, thought Billings, but put so baldly he recognized its absurdity, and he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Holly. I didn’t know what to think.’

  She was shaking her head. ‘The hilarious thing is that it was Kevin who did this to me. He was six years old and decided to trip up his older sister. He hadn’t counted on my shattering the glass pane in the door when he did.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Holly. It’s none of my business in any event. But the point is, I talked to McBain. He has been snooping around, that’s true. But not about you.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘That’s why I wanted you to know. I’m sorry, but I can’t keep up with Trachtenberg and his intrigues. I don’t know what he’s making up, what he’s “spinning”, and what is true. So I had no way of knowing whether you were worried about this, too. All I could do was ask.’

  ‘I promise you, it’s completely new to me.’

  ‘Then I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘You had no way of knowing. Not with Alan as your only source. You were right to tell me.’ She reached over and grabbed his arm and squeezed it. He determinedly didn’t look to see whether Mrs Diamond or Terry were watching. She let go of his coat. ‘You said McBain was snooping around. What about?’

  Her tone was so light and friendly that he told her the truth. ‘He thinks some of the Tories have struck a secret deal with Labour. The Thatcherites, according to McBain, were so fed up with the last government that they wanted it out at any cost – even if Labour got in. He thinks they’ve been helping Trachtenberg sabotage the campaign, doing in George Scarlatti and God knows what else.’

  ‘That will do for starters. But what evidence does he have?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘None. That’s the problem. I don’t think he’s very confident he’s going to find any, either.’

  ‘There probably isn’t any to find. The whole thing may be pure fantasy.’

  ‘No, he’s right about it. There was a deal. Between Trachtenberg and someone named Trevenix.’

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked aggressively.

  ‘I heard them,’ thinking it was time he levelled with somebody. And who other than Holly? He explained the circumstances of his eavesdropping.

  ‘You never told me this.’

  ‘No,’ he said, looking down at the ground. ‘I suppose I should have. But you see, I wasn’t meant to be there. I felt like I’d heard something I wasn’t meant to hear. Even if I didn’t fully understand it, I knew it wasn’t intended for me. I’m not that naive, you know.’

  But Holly wasn’t paying him full attention. ‘So you told McBain all this?’ Her voice was penetrating, and as he looked at her he found her full gaze on him.

  ‘No. I didn’t say a word.’ When she looked quizzically at him he explained. ‘What would be the point? It would only cause trouble. I can’t say I particularly care if something happened to Alan, but I have nothing against the government.’

  ‘I should hope not. You’re part of it.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘in a way.’

  She sighed and said in a thoughtful, distant tone of voice, ‘I suppose even if you had told McBain it wouldn’t matter that much. After all, Alan and Trevenix would just deny the story – it would be their word against McBain’s, or yours.’

  There was something menacing about this which made Billings bristle. ‘Actually, I could prove it if I wanted to.’ He explained that the incriminating Trachtenberg memo was in his possession.

  He expected her to be angry, but instead she seemed simply surprised. ‘So you did take that paper. Alan thought you might have, way back when, but I believed you.’ She looked at him with a mixture of astonishment and strange respect.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have done it, but don’t worry. As I’ve said, the story would hurt Labour and that means the story would hurt you. I’d never leak it to anybody.’

  Holly must have stopped walking, for he found himself two paces ahead of her. He turned back to find her looking worried. ‘I believe you,’ she said, after a pause, then added, ‘even if others wouldn’t.’ She looked at her watch.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Look,’ she said, speaking in a fast clip. ‘I have to go. Carrie wants me to read to Sebastian and he’s probably out of the bath now.’

  ‘Shall I come, too?’ He often read to Sebastian before bed.

  Holly shook her head. ‘Not tonight,’ she said. ‘Harry’s coming home early.’

  He nodded, stifling his disappointment. ‘See you Tuesday, then.’

  She nodded again, this time vaguely. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘Until Tuesday.’

  Chapter 20

  The catharsis of telling Holly about that evening in the Wigmore Street flat and his taking of the Trachtenberg memo was considerable. He felt almost light-headed in his relief, and the next morning Tara asked him what he was so happy about. ‘Are you getting appointed to something else?’

  ‘Don’t be sour. The greater my responsibilities elsewhere, the more you can do what you like here. As you well know.’

  She blushed slightly, so he added more gently, ‘You’ve done terrifically well, you know. When London One Thousand’s over, I’ll still want you to keep organising some of the exhibits. There’s no going back now.’ She looked pleased.

  Even the appearance of Nicky, Trachtenberg’s youthful assistant, in the calm end of the lunch hour, failed to agitate him, though as the young man came in he asked him aggressively, ‘Did Alan send you?’

  Nicky shook his head and lo
oked at Tara. He was wearing a grey Nehru jacket with a brown polo neck folded over his Adam’s apple. He had a small gold hoop in his right ear – the spikes had been removed from the left one – and a smaller silver one threaded through his nose. ‘No, no, not at all,’ he said. ‘I’m only doing a favour for Arnio. The Professore, I think you call him.’ He put a small package down on the Cedar of Lebanon.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Billings.

  Nicky looked at Billings as though he were an idiot. ‘A picture,’ he said slowly.

  Billings picked it up and held it for a bit. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Tara asked.

  ‘That depends what I’m supposed to do with it,’ he said, looking at Nicky.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Nicky. ‘Arnio asked if you could keep it for him while he’s out of the country. He said you have a vault here, and he didn’t want to leave it in his flat. He’s in the middle of moving, you see, and all sorts of people are in and out of the place. He thought it would be safer here. But only if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tara.

  ‘I’m not sure myself,’ said Nicky.

  ‘I suppose I’d better see.’ Billings undid the tape on the bubble wrap and carefully held up a small oil painting, a sketch really, framed in old light grey wood. It was immediately recognizable as a Giacometti. ‘How lovely!’ exclaimed Tara.

  How expensive, thought Billings in Ratner mode, feeling slightly nervous. ‘How long am I supposed to hold on to this?’

  ‘A week. Perhaps ten days. He said to give you this,’ he added, handing Billings an envelope.

  Opening it, he found a piece of letterhead saying The Albany and a handwritten message, per favore, Arnio. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll put it in the vault.’

  Nicky smiled broadly, first at him, then at Tara. ‘Many thanks.’